


After he left the wedding early

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Greg Lestrade, Don't tell Mummy, Erotic, Kid Fic, Kid Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Loves Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft is the best, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is Alone, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sibling Incest, Tags will change as story evolves, holmescest, sherlock claims his own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: When Mrs Hudson had said marriage changes everything, he had replied acidly with 'So does lethal injection' because that is how it felt in his mind.This wedding represented the death of his former life. It would bring in its wake a future silent and alone.Again.





	1. Into battle

**Author's Note:**

> So I started off shipping JohnLock, moved to Sherstarde quickly and have now been spoiled for any other ship by Holmescest. Resistance is futile :) I want to thank scarletmanuka and LadyGlinda who have written some of the most gorgeous stories of this pair and inspired me to write about them too ! If you like your Holmes brothers together, do read all their stories! Especially the Matter of Love series https://archiveofourown.org/series/703104  
> and the magnum opus that is Love Changes Everything ! https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177697/chapters/24954060

He had been so good about the wedding. He had helped and organized and been involved in all the minute details to an almost manic extent. He had looked into seating arrangements, colour coding, menus, even the napkins.

Anything to stay out of his own head and the keening noise that anticipates loss.

More loss that he thought he could endure.

Again.

He knew the rumours and he knew people thought he and John were together like a couple. He knew that his love for John was not sexual or romantic but that did not make the loss any less or the inevitable separation any easier to bear or the emptiness any more cheerful to look forward to.

When Mrs Hudson had said marriage changes everything, he had replied acidly with S _o does lethal injection_ because that is how it felt in his mind.

This wedding represented the death of his former life. It would bring in its wake a future silent and alone.

Again.

.

.

 _Into battle_ he thought as he wore his outfit for the wedding.

He had worked on the speech, made notes and practised the waltz on the violin. He was ready to face this. He could do this. But when he reached the venue he suddenly faltered, feeling the need for something to fortify him. Not drugs, not alcohol.

He needed something more powerful. More perfect. More reliable.

He needed Mycroft.

It is amazing how the mind works to bring us back to familiar locations, even if we are lost through long winded roads. How it can separate the smoke and mirrors from the substance. How somewhere deep inside, it _always_ knows.

It _always_ remembers.

He called him.

.

.

Mycroft had been working out on the treadmill. He picked up the phone and answered it.

 _“_ Yes, what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock noticed the breathless tone and his mind was racing to deduce. “Why are you out of breath? Either I’ve caught you in a _compromising position_ or you’ve been working out again. I favour the latter.”

Mycroft gave a half smile. He hadn’t missed the undercurrent of irritation when Sherlock said _compromising position_.

“What do you want?” he asked his brother.

Sherlock said “I need your answer, Mycroft, as a matter of urgency. Even at the eleventh hour it’s not too late, you know.”

“Oh, Lord.” Mycroft sighed, remembering. He had anticipated this call, earlier in the day in fact. He was surprised it had taken him this long.

Sherlock went on speaking. “Cars can be ordered, private jets commandeered.”

Mycroft let him down gently. “No, Sherlock, I will not be coming to the “night do,” as you so poetically put it.”

Sherlock tried to be sarcastic but failed miserably. He may have been able to fool someone else but not Mycroft who could read the finest nuance of his speech and words. “What a shame. Mary and John will be extremely d...”  


“... delighted not to have me hanging around.”  


“Oh, I don’t know. There should always be a spectre at the feast.”

.

.

Mycroft sat down. Sherlock clearly needed to talk, to give him the courage to go through with the evening. He had wondered right from the first day when Dr Watson had entered his brother’s life, limping in on a cane and then shooting a man dead to save him, whether this would finally be the person who would take his place in his brother’s heart and reduce his own guilt.

“So, this is it, then. The big day.” Mycroft said. “I suppose I’ll be seeing a lot more of you from now on. Just like old times.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock had asked him.

“Well, it’s the end of an era, isn’t it? John and Mary – domestic bliss.”

He couldn’t help probing a little bit, just to explore how Sherlock _really_ felt. Although he had hoped initially that John would have been the solution he had also been jealous, more jealous than he had expected to be , at the thought that this man, or for that matter, potentially _any man_ , could take his place in his brother’s life , simply by virtue of not being his brother.

Sherlock promptly countered with “No, no, – I prefer to think of it as the beginning of a new chapter.”

Mycroft smiled but didn’t say anything.

Sherlock waited a beat and said “ _What_?”

“Nothing!”

“I know that silence. _What_?”

“Well, I’d better let you get back to it. You have a big speech, or something, don’t you? Cake, karaoke ... _mingling_.”

Sherlock was getting angry now “Mycroft!”

.

.

Mycroft remembered seeing Dr Watson grieve for his brother like a lover during the years after the Fall but eventually saw him move on with Ms. Morstan.

He didn’t know whether he felt relieved or troubled on behalf of Sherlock. After all Sherlock had taken his rejection by Mycroft very badly.

In hindsight he should have seen it coming.

 


	2. Mine. Mine. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft may not have been openly as emotional as his younger brother, both by the maturity of his years and by his greater capacity for control but there was no doubt that he reciprocated Sherlock’s love in depth if not in fervour.

He really should have seen it coming.

The isolated childhood with only his older brother for constant company. The brilliance that no one could possibly match, shaped under his indulgent guidance. The inability to handle emotions on an even keel and the passion that made it even more difficult to control, combined with the fierce possessiveness he showed towards his older brother.

Although most children recognize themselves as separate entities and become self-aware by the time they are 2 years of age, this is usually followed by a sense of self-consciousness when they become shy or try to hide or in some way want to become invisible as they figure out who they really are as separate entities. A bit like a butterfly in the chrysalis before it emerges.

The trouble was that although Sherlock had become self-aware by the time he was two as expected he genuinely believed that he was one unit with his brother and not a separate entity, for many years afterwards. When he was four years old and they tried to send him to the neighbourhood playschool for a few hours, he had howled in distress as though he was being torn apart from limb to limb and neither Mummy nor Mycroft had been strong enough to insist that he go anyway.

He had clung to Mycroft all that day and all that night, his entire skinny body trembling with terror and outrage at the attempted separation.

It had taken an entire week for him to move off Mycroft’s lap and be convinced that neither of them would vanish. “Here, sit right next to me.” Mycroft had crooned, in a soothing voice. “I am not going anywhere. Here. Hold my hand, brother mine.”

“Mine.” Sherlock had chanted fiercely. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

Mummy had taken them to the local child counsellor who had confirmed that her second child was also gifted with the clearly superior intelligence beyond the highest percentile and cautioned her that emotional maturity did not always catch up quickly with such individuals.

She had come home in deep thought. Somehow Mycroft had better emotional control or was it that she had been younger and had more patience when she had raised him? She had cut down on her professional commitments to raise the boys but their father still worked punishing hours and she had essentially raised the boys almost single- handedly so far. She wondered how she could make it all work best for Sherlock.

She had been so worried about Sherlock that she had forgotten the second half of that equation.

Mycroft may not have been openly as emotional as his younger brother, both by the maturity of his years and by his greater capacity for control but there was no doubt that he reciprocated Sherlock’s love in depth if not in fervour.

So Mycroft had stepped up even more and continued to love him and protect him and indulge him while also teaching him everything he himself was learning. He had already surpassed every tutor and teacher they had brought in and from the age of 8 had been self- taught, using the enormous home library as his reference.

As a result of this, his hours spent with Sherlock in the library resulted in discussions ranging from Aristotle’s theories of logic and deductive reasoning to Yeats’ poetry and from understanding fractals to supernovas. They learnt memory tricks and codes and deductions together. They studied the globe and anatomy textbooks, poisons and medicines.

While Mycroft practised the piano, Sherlock had preferred the violin and they spent many happy hours playing and composing together.

Mycroft taught Sherlock Russian, Spanish, Mandarin and Sanskrit so that he could pick up the other languages from the same families on his own. Since Mummy knew all these languages but for some reason had never picked up British Sign Language, for his 7th birthday treat Mycroft also taught him that as well as Esperanto, both of which he mastered in two days.

Sherlock was utterly delighted to have some languages that were shared only by him and Mycroft and he would spend most of his time at the dining table waving his hands around signing to his brother instead of eating his food.

Mummy would smile at them both indulgently, knowing that between their cook and Mycroft, Sherlock would be well fed later before he went to sleep. (Probably spoon fed by his older brother she suspected, who would then eat the leftovers so as to not waste the food).

After he finished signing what he wanted to, Sherlock would always rub a closed fist over his heart. _Mine. Mine. Mine._

Mycroft would then smile at him and resting his elbow on the dining chair he would move his index finger in a wide circle _. Always, Forever._


	3. I miss you. Constantly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Time you old gypsy man will you not stay……Set up your caravan just for a day…..” Ralph Hodgson

These blissful times had to come to an inevitable end. Although they had kept Sherlock home for schooling to avoid the separation, eventually Mycroft had to leave home for University.

He had gently started preparing Sherlock for this. He knew that despite his brilliance and obvious genius, his brother had difficulty managing emotions and was often overwhelmed by them. So he had carefully helped him construct a Mind Palace where he could separate the inputs, create archives for future reference, find calm places, shelters, answers. He helped him set out rooms and floors. Sherlock had loved the idea and had sat just like his Mycie, fingers steepled under his chin, serious expression on his face, eyes focussed in mid-air, scanning the facts, thoughts, ideas, results, people, patterns, codes, maps…..everything really.

For the people, he had wanted a room for Mummy of course and a smaller one for Father and Cook and everyone else at home. He had asked for a room for Uncle Rudy who was just about the only relative he could tolerate and one for Redbeard.

After a couple of days working on this finally Mycroft had asked out of curiosity—“Lockie, don’t you want a room for me?”

Sherlock had given him a baffled look. “But you are the Mind Palace Mycie! It’s all you! You are everywhere.” And he had given him a smile that had melted his heart and terrified him to his very core.

He had trembled at the innocence that was giving him so much power. How was he going to stay apart from him and survive?

.

.

Sherlock had been 12 years, eight months and three weeks old when Mycroft had gone.

It had been a heart rending day for them both. Sherlock had worked himself up into a fever and was asleep, drenched in sweat from the medication he had to be given. Mycroft had come in quietly to take a look at him before leaving but had found the sight of his little brother’s flushed face, damp curls and hands twisted into the bedclothes in clear agony, too much to handle and had left again as quietly as he came in.

As the car turned beyond the drive and he could no longer see the window of Sherlock’s room he put down the foundation stone for the wall he started to build around his heart. He would need this wall if he was to survive in the world without his brother in front of his eyes, or an arm’s length away, or a hot giggling whisper in his ear, or the flapping hands at the dinner table, followed by the closed fist rubbing on his chest. _Mine. Mine. Mine._

.

.

The first time Mycroft had been able to return home that year was after 4 months. It should have been six months but he had of course completed his assignments way ahead of every schedule and been granted his request to take his first term tests early.

Mycroft would often turn to share something he was reading and find no one next to him, kicking his legs in the air, watching him with worshipping eyes. He would look at someone in class and deduce their story but there was no one to sign it to and smile. He would be climbing down the stairs and find himself moving his right hand backwards as though to offer it to his brother to help him down the stairs, always jumping two feet at a time since ‘one by one is soooo boring Mycie!’

He would finish his meal and fill up the plate again before remembering that there was no one to feed spoon by spoon as he buzzed around asking a hundred questions.

_Why do people believe in god Mycie? What will happen if the earth stops moving? How can glass be transparent if it is made of sand? Mycie?_

_._

_._

He had been writing to Sherlock every week since he had joined, making up puzzles and cryptic clues and sharing some anecdotes of his college life. He had told him how all the others around him were like goldfish, with short memory spans. He wrote to him about the terrible food that was served in the mess. He described the architecture of his rooms. He sent short biographies of famous alumni.

Every line he wrote really said only one thing though. _I miss you. Constantly_.

His little brother had not replied even once.

_._

_._

Mycroft had spoken to Mummy about his visit home and they had agreed not to let Sherlock know in case things didn’t work out because the disappointment would be too much for him to handle.

“How is he?” Mycroft had asked and Mummy had paused a second too long before saying, “He is fine Myc.” Another pause. “He will be very happy to see you.”

That day Mycroft felt almost giddy with excitement as he reached his driveway and stepped across the familiar threshold. He had barely made it inside when it felt like a cannonball had been shot at his abdomen and he almost fell down and had to stagger some steps and hold himself up against the wall.

“MYCIE!!!! I knew it I knew it I knew it!!! I deduced it from the way Mummy and cook were behaving!!!! You were coming today!!!You came back!!!” Sherlock had barrelled into him and was now hugging him and shrieking with his face buried into his stomach causing Mycroft to laugh. He hugged him back equally fiercely and when the boy stopped writhing, he bent down and planted a kiss on top of those soft wild curls.

“Hello brother mine.” he said softly.

Sherlock didn’t let him go but put up his closed fist on Mycroft’s chest and rubbed it thrice. _Mine. Mine. Mine_.

“Always”. Mycroft whispered back, all the stress of the last few months melting away, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in four months. A feeling of peace percolated through his brain replacing a tension he had not even realized he was harbouring.

He was home. Where his heart was.


	4. It was going to be the end of an era.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little did either of them know that those would be the last idyllic days of togetherness they would have.

The two months they had together that summer had been glorious. Sherlock had not let him out of his sight for one second and Mycroft had delighted in the fierce possessiveness of it all. They had read together and played music and spent hours upon hours in the library.

Clearly Sherlock still craved to sit in his lap and cling to him but even he had realized that they could no longer do that. This restriction made Sherlock behave as though he wanted to flay his skin open and escape from it. His body was also changing as he entered his teens and he hated every second of it. He had started calling his body ‘The Transport’ in order to detach himself from it and its needs. With all the bravado and disdain that only a teenager could pull off he had declared that eating was boring. (…… _I don’t want to eat without Mycie feeding me_ ). Sleeping was a waste of time. (…… _I don’t want to sleep without Mycie near me)._ Life was pointless _(……when Mycie wasn’t around)._

Mummy had not even bothered to ask Mycroft if he wanted to catch up with anyone else while he was home. There was no one else. There never had been.

Of course, little did either of them know that those would be the last idyllic days of togetherness they would have.

It was going to be the end of an era.

.

.

It was the day before he was to return. While Mycroft was reclining under a tree in their garden, reading his book, Sherlock had been digging in the mud for some worms.

Suddenly he had said “Breathing is boring Mycie…… Mycie??! Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, yes I am listening to you. And carrying on breathing, boring as it is, because the alternative is death.”

“Death is all black and quiet isn’t it?” Sherlock had asked, in a distracted way, still looking for the worms.

Mycroft had looked over at him and wondered if he needed to worry about suicidal ideation. He remembered being 13 himself and how the morbid thoughts and the fear of death had come to him suddenly one day. Almost like an out- of- body experience. His brain had suddenly decided to go beyond the intellectual ruminations and theoretical knowledge of mortality and give him a heart-stopping nightmare instead. He had woken up with a clear sense of existentialist angst which had in fact motivated him to do even more. He needed to know more, be more, control more, make things right more. Time was limited. Time was precious.

He wondered if similar thoughts were going through Sherlock’s head and before he could stop himself he had put out his hand to ruffle those wild soft curls.

“Is it getting too noisy inside your head again Lockie?”

Sherlock had shied away like a startled pony.

“Don’t pet me.” he had scowled. “I am not Redbeard.”

“No, that you are not. He is loving and cheerful and always happy to see me”. Mycroft had replied calmly.

Silence. His younger brother scowled and continued to dig into the grass with his stick.

Redbeard had been meant for Mycroft but Sherlock had taken to him with his usual passion and the dog had returned the sentiment.

Many years later it occurred to Mycroft that this would always be the pattern. Whenever Sherlock allowed anyone into his very exclusive fragile emotional ecosystem, that person would end up loving him more than anyone else they ever had. He was quite sure that Mummy loved him more and in later years there had been Mrs. Hudson, Dr Molly Hopper, Inspector Gregory Lestrade and of course Dr John Watson. Mycroft had never resented that even for a second. He had only felt a sense of relief and no small amount of pride that his beloved brother could elicit such love and loyalty from such fine people.

But that was all still many years away.

Today they sat under the tree, enjoying the late afternoon sun, edging closer to the parting but neither of them willing to acknowledge it, as if staying silent would help postpone the inevitable.

.

.

“You are going away again”. Sherlock said suddenly.

_Ah. There it was. He had been wondering when this would come._

“Yes.”

“Take me with you.”

“I can’t Sherlock. I wish I could. You know that. But I will write to you and visit often. Soon you will also go to Uni.”

“By then you will have gone somewhere else.” The voice sounded tremulous and tears were threatening.

“I am sorry Lockie”, Mycroft said gently. “But that is how life is. Nothing is permanent except change.”

“I hate you.” Sherlock had shouted, springing to his feet and running away.

Mycroft had watched him go with a heavy heart but had not tried to stop him.

.

.

That night before sleeping he had gone to Sherlock’s room. He stopped at the door, waiting, wondering if his brother was asleep. Sherlock had heard him of course and said angrily “Go _away_.”

Which he understood, correctly, to mean exactly the opposite.

He had gone in and lay down next to him, on his side, and tentatively put his arm around the scrawny young man curled up there, anger radiating from every fibre. At his touch, Sherlock had started sobbing and Mycroft had held him, gently stroking his back, his heart breaking at his helplessness to change things and make them better.

Finally the tears had given way to sleep and when Mycroft left the next morning Sherlock didn’t come down to say goodbye.


	5. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Mycroft could do was hope that their relationship had not been permanently damaged by the separation.

Then had followed the years upon years of separation, which had been traumatic for both of them but excruciatingly more so for Sherlock because Mycroft at least had his studies, new avenues to explore, new people to interact with.

Mycroft had been recruited by MI 5 even before he had finished with his courses in political science, forensic psychology and the latest emerging field of computer languages and artificial intelligence. This meant a different kind of training and even more time away from home. Fewer things that he was allowed to share with Sherlock or his parents and a whole vast world away from where he had been just a handful of years ago, lazing under a tree reading a book as his brother dug for worms in the mud.

He had no time to write letters anymore and the things he was allowed to share had become less too. His heart ached at the thought of Sherlock navigating his life alone, without him, but maybe this would help him reach out to others and build different relationships. He hoped that people would not disappoint him and certainly hoped that no one would hurt him. The thought of that made him clench his fists but he knew that some battles had to be fought by Sherlock alone.

And w _hat doesn’t kill you makes you stronger….._

Somehow one year became three and then five and he had not managed to return for anything longer than a quick weekend once a year. Sherlock had managed to avoid meeting him every single one of those times. Although he was quite certain that he was managing to look at him when he couldn’t be seen.

All Mycroft could do was hope that their relationship had not been permanently damaged by the separation. He made sure he sent a special gift for his birthday every year. And he continued to add more stones to the walled city that was now his heart.

He chanted his new mantras every day.

_Alone protects us._

_Caring is not an advantage_.

Sometimes he almost believed them too.

.

.

Sherlock had finally joined a regular high school at the age of 16 and Mummy kept Mycroft updated. Hardly any of it was even remotely reassuring.

_‘He has no friends Myc.’_

_‘He set fire to the barn last week’._

_‘He hardly eats.’_

_‘He plays the violin at all hours.’_

_‘Will you come this year at least?’_

_‘We had to put down Redbeard.’_

_‘He has taken to using your room to sleep in.’_

_‘He misses you, you know.’_

_._

_._

So finally Mycroft could keep away no longer and he had managed to wangle an entire week off and go home for Sherlock’s 18th birthday. He was really looking forward to it. He had managed to procure the material needed to construct a rooftop Camera Obscura that he was sure Sherlock would find fascinating.

He wondered what Sherlock was like now.

He knew that Redbeard had to be put down last year and Mummy had said that is when he had started sleeping in his older brother’s room. Mycroft felt a pang of guilt although he knew this was just a rite of passage. Separation, death, sorrow were all part of the painful process of growing up.

He just hoped they hadn’t grown apart irreversibly because after all these years in University he realized that he had never found anyone whose company he enjoyed as much as that of Sherlock. He had not found anyone as brilliant, incisive and sharp.

He wondered if Sherlock would also consider working for MI6 the way he did now. He would certainly enjoy the puzzles and the intrigue. He hoped that Sherlock would not avoid him at least this time. He expected that he would have outgrown his sulks and tantrums. He expected he would also want to share stories from his own studies, his friends, his teachers.

He thought of many things…….but what he did not anticipate was that his life would tilt wildly on its axis and send him spinning out of control.


	6. Let's pretend this never happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy was hugging Mycroft and asking him questions about his journey and all he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears from the sight over her shoulders.

Going to university had made Mycroft more aware of his own sexuality as well as his limitations. He preferred men, which he had always known. But he simply couldn’t tolerate anyone who was not intelligent and it made his skin crawl to think of touching most other people.

So eventually his exploration and understanding of his own sexuality had been more of an intellectual and theoretical exercise than much of a practical one. Although these concepts were not well understood back in the 1980s, he even considered the possibility that he may have been somewhat asexual and that had made sense since he never had urges as often as other young men seemed to say they did. Not that it was either safe or acceptable in those day for people to have same sex partners even if they wanted to.

_All the more time and energy to spend on taking over the world_ , he thought to himself with a smile.

It was in this safe cocoon of his identity that he made the longest trip home, after almost 5 years, looking forward to being with his parents and of course Sherlock.

.

.

He thought fondly of his curly haired brother and wondered how he looked now and whether he would still be in an epic sulk or he would deign to talk to him. He reminisced about the late night spoon feeding sessions, the mad signing conversations at the dinner table, the music they made together. He felt a surge of love and longing for those carefree days and suddenly wished desperately that he would be able to get back to what he had with Sherlock. Having ventured out so far away from home he knew how valuable and unique their bond had been.

His mind was filled with these sepia- tinted nostalgic memories when he arrived, still remembering Sherlock as he had last seen him, a scrappy 13 year old child and he was thus utterly unprepared for the tall, breath-takingly gorgeous prince who looked in shyly from the staircase when he entered the hallway.

Mummy was hugging Mycroft and asking him questions about his journey and all he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears from the sight over her shoulders.

Every fibre of his being basically woke up that instant and started a chorus song of awakening sexuality and desire and longing and if that wasn’t terrifying enough, he thought he could see a matching flame in the other face.

He did the only thing he could sensibly do.

He closed his eyes.

.

.

When he finally opened them Sherlock had disappeared. He didn’t come down for lunch and Mycroft ate his meal distractedly answering Mummy’s questions.

Sherlock did come down for dinner later that day but spent the entire time staring at his plate and rearranging his food. Mycroft spoke to him a couple of times, glancing at him briefly, unable to resist staring but unwilling to allow himself to do it. Of course he was royally ignored. His mother sighed and carried on with the conversation.

As soon as he was done with his meal, Sherlock dragged the chair back and left the table.

Both his parents were very interested in what Mycroft was doing so of course they had many questions and he answered them in as much detail as he was allowed to and very patiently responded to all their queries, half his brain listening to the violin notes that had started filtering down from the room upstairs.

He recognized them and the passion with which they were being played. He could read in them the frightening echoes of his own desires as clearly as if they were painted on the wall.

.

.

Eventually his parents were done with the after- dinner conversation and Mycroft went upstairs to his room, slowly, an equal pull of fear and anticipation making his journey a complex mental exercise. The notes from the violin had turned more plaintive now and when he crossed the landing the music stopped. The door to Sherlock’s room was ajar but the room itself was in darkness, and he was utterly unsure of how to navigate this potential minefield, so he simply continued quietly to his own room, changed and got into bed, planning to read something before he slept.

_What was the meaning of this ridiculous and inappropriate betrayal by his body and his heart? This was his own brother!_

He had seen and met hundreds of young men during the University years and later, all in their prime, including some who had shown an interest in him, but none, not a single one had had the impact on him that he had on seeing Sherlock earlier that day.

His brother had gone from being gangly to lithe, from beautiful to breath-taking. And from adorable to gorgeous.

He wanted to touch him, to hold him, to keep him close. He wanted to ….…to do things he would not even allow himself to accept. He loved him. Of course he did. He always had. So much.

He had cherished him and protected him as a child and he had known even then that they were closer than ‘normal’ brothers. Of course they were themselves not exactly ‘normal’ were they?

_But this? This new feeling? This magnetic pull? This attraction? Surely this was not acceptable._

_How was he going to last an entire week here? Maybe he should make some excuses and leave early._

He sat despairing, holding his head in his hands when he heard footsteps near his bedroom and then the door was pushed open.

Sherlock was standing there, a curious mixture of defiance and apprehension on his face. He stood there for a few beats staring at Mycroft with such intensity that the very air started to crackle. Mycroft just sat there, too stunned to react in any way, too mesmerized to even breathe. Just looking and drinking him in. Those electric blue eyes. Those cheekbones. Those lips. He looked like a Botticelli angel. _How could anyone be so beautiful ??_

Sherlock stepped further into the room since he wasn’t being asked to leave. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, the effect making Mycroft’s very bones melt.

‘I sleep in this bed,” he said in the new voice that Mycroft heard for the first time today and it had the effect of making him feel like he was sinking into hot lava. _That voice!_ That deep powerful and _exquisite_ voice made Mycroft’s brain lose all capacity for reasoning.

‘Sure. Of course.’ he said, getting off the bed, keeping his own voice steady with superhuman effort. ‘I will sleep in your room. It’s ok.’

Sherlock closed the door behind him before Mycroft could come any closer. ‘Your bed is big enough.’

‘Sherlock….no. Please. We are not small children anymore.’

‘I know.’ And suddenly there was a dangerous undercurrent and a gleam in his eyes.

Mycroft had probably not felt as much fear even during his training ops or while working undercover and in clear and present danger on the field. But his training had also taught him hostage negotiation and self- preservation and both kicked in like an instinct as soon as his brain was able to function again.

He took a deep breath.

‘Sherlock….’Mycroft said softly, his eyes dark and desperate. “Listen, we haven’t met in years now. Can we just try to get to know each other again first? I have missed you. So much. So very much. I want to ….I want us to ………have a relationship again. I still remember you as the 13 year old who sulked and ran away from me that day”, he smiled, hoping that his calm voice was helping get the words across. “I am not sure what you have been up to all these years, what you have been thinking……..how………”

But before he could continue Sherlock had come perilously close and in a split second had placed a kiss on his lips. Soft and dry, barely a whisper, but definitely a kiss.

“I have missed you too Mycie.” he whispered.” So much.” 

Mycroft thought his knees would give way. His heart was hammering in his chest. He took a deep breath and steadied himself and began again. He HAD to be the sensible one. The grown up. The responsible one.

“You have been smoking,” he said to change the subject. _Pretend this never happened._

“Mummy doesn’t know.” Sherlock replied.

“Yet.” Mycroft said.

“Are you going to tell her?” his brother asked.

And suddenly Mycroft isn’t sure it’s just smoking they are talking about.

“If you stop then I won’t have to….”

That was the first mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are nectar to a writer's soul :) Do drop a line if you are enjoying this story !


	7. Everyone is allowed one mistake in life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he had been asked right then if it was night or day or up or down, he would have probably just smiled and asked whether it mattered anymore?

“Mummy doesn’t know.” Sherlock replied.

“Yet.” Mycroft said.

“Are you going to tell her?” his brother asked.

And suddenly Mycroft isn’t sure it’s just smoking they are talking about.

“If you stop then I won’t have to….”

That was the first mistake.

.

.

He should have remembered that Sherlock never reacted well to any ultimatum.

His next breath was stolen from him as Sherlock held his face in both his hands and kissed him, slowly, almost languidly, his tongue slipping inside even as Mycroft attempted half-heartedly to push him away with a hand pressed against his chest. Sherlock took one hand away from his face and started to unbutton his own shirt. When Mycroft realized that his hand was now effectively inside Sherlock’s shirt he pulled it away in a hurry which allowed Sherlock to pull him closer still, smiling against the kiss.

_Mine. Mine. Mine._

_Surely Mycroft was strong enough to push him away if he really wanted to……….surely he didn’t really want to?_ He was no longer trembling with apprehension but more so with desire.

Mycie. My perfect protective loving brother. Mine.

Mycroft was no longer aware of his surroundings. This was magic and enchantments and all kinds of divine. This was rapture. This was ecstasy. This was euphoria. This was the song of angels and the gates of heaven and this was the purpose of his very existence and all he wanted to do for the rest of his life was to worship at the altar of this new god and never let go of this embrace.

It was too much and not nearly enough. He wanted….. no, he _needed_ …… he HAD to enter him……. And be taken by him ………and never _ever_ be separated and this kiss……..oh this madness……

“STOP Sherlock! Stop it. Please!” he said, breaking away from him, barely able to catch his breath.

Sherlock looked at him, arms around his waist, swollen lips just a tilt of a head away and asked, “Do you really want me to stop?”

Mycroft took a shaky breath and found that he no longer had the strength to say yes nor the courage to say no, so once again, he simply closed his eyes.

That was the second mistake.

.

.

Whenever he thought of that night in later years, (and he thought of it often) it felt like a dream.

Like diving into a spectacular impressionist painting, swimming in clear waters while also flying in blue skies, listening to the chorus of angels. It felt as though he had an out- of- body experience which was simultaneously divine and terrifying.

He understood the source of all art and poetry and everything was love. He felt the beginning of the universe and the death of the Sun.

He had never imagined that his body was capable of experiencing so much pleasure nor that being able to offer such pleasure in return to a lover could make his heart almost burst with joy.

What was the meaning of life but to love? He felt as though he was floating on an ocean of enchantment and if he had been asked right then if it was night or day or up or down, he would have probably just smiled and asked whether it mattered anymore?

.

.

Oh but it mattered. It mattered so much!!

He woke up in the early hours of dawn, instinctively holding closer the warm body tangled up with his, before he slowly remembered what had happened and his world came crashing around his ears.

_It had not been a dream!_

He looked down to see Sherlock fast asleep beside him, both of them wearing only the sheets that covered them.

His mouth was instantly dry with fear and his heart was hammering fit to escape his ribcage.

_What had they done?? What had HE done??! How could he have allowed this to happen??_

Surely, there was a special place in hell for someone like him.

He had allowed his emotions to control his brain and this was going to devastate everyone.

.

.

Sherlock woke up as he tried to leave the bed and looked up at him sleepy soft with such a tender smile on his face that Mycroft wished for the thousandth time since the earlier evening that he was not his brother. That this sublime and addictive experience had not been something illegal, criminal, inappropriate, immoral and every possible sin from every possible angle. That he had had the strength to say no last night because now it was going to be infinitely more difficult if it was even still possible.

It had to be possible. This simply could not go on. Everyone is allowed one mistake in life.

Even if it is one of cosmic proportions.

This was a mistake. It would not be repeated. Not if Mycroft could help it.

.

.

He stood by the bed as Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Sherlock,” he started to say. He stopped to remind himself to breathe when his brother gave him a dazzling smile. “Sherlock, we have always been close. Very close. Too close some might say.” He shrugged. “But we are older now ……and I know you don’t have many close friends. That’s ok. Neither do I. But you seem to have developed some feelings for me or rather for your memory of me while I have been away. Can we please pretend this never happened? This was a mistake. It can never happen again. You know that I would do anything for your happiness and that is why I am holding back. If things go wrong I could not bear to have you hate me.” He paused. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

_Besides the fact that I am your older brother for heaven’s sake and it’s illegal as well as wrong on so many levels and I am currently equally desperate to have you and hold you and you have no idea what it is taking for me to undertake this negotiation and keep you away………_

Even now when he remembered that electric night, he wondered how his 24 year- old- self had found the strength and the courage and the sheer tenacity to stay away and keep Sherlock away when every fibre of his being was asking for exactly the opposite.

He had been so young himself…..had he made the right decision?

Or had that been the final and the biggest mistake?

 


	8. If even you can’t manage then God help us all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like everyone else who entered Sherlock’s life and became the satellites around his Sun, it seems even arch villains were not immune. Jim Moriarty took a fancy to the Consulting Detective and roped him into a bizarre game of deadly and escalating puzzles.

Even now when he remembered that electric night, he wondered how his 24 year- old- self had found the strength and the courage and the sheer tenacity to stay away and keep Sherlock away when every fibre of his being was asking for exactly the opposite.

He had been so young himself…..had he made the right decision?

Or had that been the final mistake?

.

.

Sherlock certainly thought so.

He had argued-- _Since when do the rules matter to us Mycie?!_

He had accused-- _You know you want this as much as I do_.

He had attacked. _Don’t you love me? Liar. I hate you._

He had even begged-- _Please Mycie. I can’t do this without you. I can’t be without you._

He had pleaded _. There is so much noise in my brain. You can make it quiet Mycie._

He had threatened _. If I can’t have you I won’t have anybody._

He had finally looked at him with eyes full of such pain of betrayal that Mycroft still had nightmares where those eyes followed him around.

_It WASN’T a mistake Mycie. You KNOW that._

_._

_._

Sherlock had struggled through two years of college, undoubtedly the most brilliant student they had ever had but equally the most incapable of submitting to any routine or rules.

_He still doesn’t have any friends Mycie._

_He is so unhappy._

_He hardly talks to us anymore._

Finally Mycroft had been forced to tell his mother that Sherlock was grown up and an adult and needed to fight his own demons.

“Oh I know that son, but promise me that you will keep an eye on him. For me. Keep him safe. That’s all I ask.”

“Yes Mummy.” Mycroft had promised even as his conscience reminded him that he probably needed to keep Sherlock safe from himself.

.

.

His own intense craving had found relief in food. Mostly sweets. He ate when he missed Sherlock. He ate when he felt guilty about what had happened. He ate when he craved his presence. He ate when he wanted to punish himself. He ate when he was ashamed. He ate when he was conflicted.

He had put on at least 3 stone.

As he was expanding physically, he was chaining himself up emotionally. Brick by brick. He would never again allow himself to be a slave to his emotions. _Alone protects us. Caring is not an advantage._ Those who run cults do understand human psychology. When you say something often enough, it does seem to become the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

He indulged himself with the best of art and poetry and wore bespoke suits cut from the finest cloth. Unknowingly always seeking out everything that could bring back even a whisper of that enchantment and sublimation of the finest desires of that magical night.

.

.

And then Sherlock had turned up at Mycroft’s door one day, standing there in the pouring rain. Mycroft had opened the door to him and just looked on, unable once again to say either come in or go away. He did eventually let him in and the presence of the household staff ensured that Sherlock kept his distance. Mycroft went to the Diogenes Club to spend the night and when he came back the next evening Sherlock had left.

Then had followed the worst years of Mycroft’s life. Unlike his own refuge in food, Sherlock had found a temporary cure for his agony and craving in drugs. The dark years that had followed with him spiralling in and out into drugs had taken their toll on Mycroft too.

He had come close to breaking down and giving in on two separate occasions, but had somehow found the willpower to hold fast and believed that the decision to be apart was best in the longer term. The law may not be relevant really since they were not going to produce any children and both were consenting adults but his job would certainly not survive such a revelation.

And if things did not work out between them who would Sherlock turn to?

He simply could not allow this to happen.

Exercising such spectacular displays of willpower spilled over to other areas of work and eventually gave way to real power. Clearly Queen and Country appreciate the services and soon this minor official rose through the ranks till he was, essentially, the British Government.

And quite like the ‘poor little rich boy’ of cautionary fairy tales and folktales, he may have had Royalty and Heads of State at his door, but the one man he wanted by his side was the one man he could never have.

The more he grew in power, the further away he had to push him. There were simply too many things that could go wrong. His increasingly important roles in the British Government meant that someone could easily take in their heads to hurt his brother as leverage, and even more so if they were discovered to be more than brothers.

When Sherlock had faced this new line of argument of course he had perversely gone and almost sought out the criminal classes by working with Scotland Yard, turning up un-solicited at their crime scenes. Mycroft had then had to scramble to keep him safe there and had fortunately found an ally in Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who had recognized Sherlock’s brilliance but also understood his vulnerability.

.

.

That devastating day when the D.I had rescued Sherlock from a near fatal overdose, Mycroft had sat by his brother’s bedside at the hospital later, unable to even express openly the sorrow and terror he had felt at the sight. But he had been unable to resist just holding his hand, touching him to confirm that he was indeed alive.

He was here. He was breathing. The world could keep on turning. The sun was allowed to rise tomorrow.

Sherlock had woken up at his touch and while still groggy he had tried to pull him down and had kissed him on the lips. Mycroft had taken just one second too long to pull away from that kiss.

When he did, with a tremor going down his entire body, he had noticed the Detective Inspector having just arrived in the doorway watching them with his gentle brown eyes, in his capable and calm way, hands deep inside his coat pockets. When Mycroft had looked up into those eyes he saw that the D.I had drawn certain conclusions but was also showing with his body language that he would be on Sherlock’s side, come what may.

Mycroft had given a barely discernible nod of gratitude and left.

From that day onwards Gregory Lestrade had stepped up to be there for Sherlock in every capacity he needed him. To fill the shoes of a father figure, to be there as an anchor when life got too chaotic, to be there as a refuge when the world was hostile, to give him puzzles to solve when that genius brain got bored.

Knowing all the time that he was helping him cope with the separation from an un-attainable although clearly not un-requited love.

.

.

After that episode with the overdose Mycroft had asked Sherlock, in Lestrade’s presence, to at least keep a list. “Please promise me, there will always be a list.”

Sherlock had looked away, refusing to even acknowledge him.

The next time they met again in a hospital a few months later Lestrade had wordlessly handed over the list he had found in Sherlock’s pocket.

Scrawled on that crumpled piece of paper it said –

Things I am addicted to

Mycie.

Mycie

Mycie

Mycie

Mycie

 

Mycroft had gripped his umbrella handle so tight that his knuckles had turned white. He was, as always, utterly helpless when it came to maintaining any control over his life where his brother was concerned. He could start and stop wars with one phone call, overthrow dictators with another.

_But he had no idea what he was supposed to do with this? How could he solve this? How do you turn such desperate love and devotion into something less dangerous?_

The D.I had offered an unexpected solution.

“Here, take this.” he had said, pulling off his own wedding ring. “I no longer have use for it. Maybe if Sherlock believes you are committed to someone else……”and he had shrugged.

Mycroft had looked at that ring, turning it over, wondering if this could indeed work, at least for some time. Surely Lestrade didn’t believe that this could fool Sherlock for too long. But it was an interesting option. He returned the ring of course since clearly Sherlock would recognize it right away and if he suspected that Lestrade had given it to Mycroft he would be devastated by the perceived betrayal. Mycroft knew exactly how possessive he could be about those he cared for.

He did invest in a ring the next week though and wore it on his right hand. That had worked for a while.

“So you found yourself a goldfish?” Sherlock had remarked the very next time they met, putting up a show of being snide although he had gone very pale and was clenching and un-clenching his fist the whole time.

Mycroft had smiled thinly and said in a non- reply he had perfected by now “Maybe you should too.”

.

.

Soon afterwards Gregory had found Sherlock a flat in Baker Street and Mrs Hudson had turned out to be the perfect landlady-- indulgent and instantly fond of Sherlock. Then Sherlock had found Dr Molly Hooper at St Bart’s who had also developed deep feelings for him. She would watch over him and help him and be there for him.

Mycroft watched from a distance as all these proxies were slowly replacing him in his brother’s life and he could only be grateful. He knew they were looking out for him and supporting him and helping him be the best he could.

He was grateful. He really was.

The only time he had felt a spark of resentment was when Dr John Watson had walked in, leaning on a cane and fit into his brother’s life like they were two pieces of one puzzle.

He had been more than alarmed when the man had shot and killed a cabbie within 24 hours. That it had saved his brother’s life meant he was indebted, but honestly, a war hero with an un-licensed gun and a capacity to shoot in cold blood from meters away gave him more cause for concern than comfort.

Naturally he had had him brought in for a ‘chat’ and had ended the interaction with a grudging admiration for his gumption and the possibility that this may indeed be the turning point in Sherlock’s life.

.

.

He never really knew what went on behind the closed doors at 221B, despite his brother’s paranoia about his surveillance. He was not a voyeur. All he had ever wanted to do was keep Sherlock safe.

Because he had promised Mummy.

And because his loss would utterly break his heart.

.

.

Like everyone else who entered Sherlock’s life and became the satellites around his Sun, it seems even arch villains were not immune. Jim Moriarty took a fancy to the Consulting Detective and roped him into a bizarre game of deadly and escalating puzzles. The collateral damages were mounting high.

Sherlock had battled him to the best of his ability but when the circle of collateral damage cut to close to the bone, he needed to step out of the arena.

Many vicious arguments followed between the two brothers.

“No Mycroft. I cannot allow Greg or John or Mrs Hudson to be harmed. They are FAMILY.”

And then driving the sharp knife even further into his heart—“They are my real family.”

Having once said no to Sherlock, it was no longer possible for him to deny his brother anything else. Mycroft had no choice but to plan the Fall in the most meticulous way possible. All 13 scenarios. He knew that if the landing wasn’t soft, there would be another body in the family grave soon.

.

.

The two years after the Fall had been the most painful, because worse than having Sherlock out of his sight and direct protection was the fact that he actually knew that he was in constant danger. He was not sure how he had managed to function at all during those two years given the constant ticker tape of worry for his brother and the inability to sleep through the night.

In the meanwhile he had also watched Dr Watson closely, keeping a weather eye on him, ready to intervene if needed. The man had grieved him like a lover initially but to Mycroft’s surprise, had moved on.

.

.

Gregory Lestrade had actually turned up at the Diogenes Club the day after the ‘funeral’ calmly asking for Mr. Holmes. The man at the reception had almost allowed himself to blink twice when Mr. Holmes had come down himself to escort the D.I to his room. That had probably never happened in the history of the Club.

Lestrade had accepted the offer of ‘please do take a seat.’ And interrupted when Mycroft started asking “How can I help…”

“Is he safe wherever he is?” Gregory had asked in his direct way.

He was hiding his absolute horror at the possibility of a response which would mean Mycroft had not planned all this and Sherlock was genuinely gone. _No,_ he told himself. From what he knew of these two men, _Mycroft would not be sitting here like this if Sherlock was truly no more._

But he dared not ask a more direct question which would force a lie.

Mycroft had marvelled at this man anew and blessed whatever roll of the dice had made him Sherlock’s guardian. He looked him in the eye and nodded. Then he said quietly, “As much as I can manage.”

Gregory had given him a thin smile in return and said,” If even you can’t manage then God help us all.”

Mycroft stood up when he got up to leave and found Gregory’s hand on his shoulder.

“Take care.” The older man said to him and then he was gone.

.

.

Mycroft had struggled everyday with keeping the secret and keeping him safe.

He had given up sweets completely because every time he ate any it made him wonder what Sherlock was doing and if anyone was looking after him and reminding him to eat.

If humanly possible he would have even given up food completely till his brother returned……

.

.

Eventually he had had to step in and rescue him from Serbia and had brought him back to London only to have him leave at once to find Dr Watson and get beaten up for his efforts.

It had taken a lot of persuasion from Sherlock to stop him from giving Dr Watson a taste of his own medicine. Mycroft had seethed and fumed in helpless anger that someone could hurt Sherlock like this and get away with it.

Then he had to again stand by and watch Sherlock cope (not too well it would appear) with his former blogger moving on and planning a wedding.

That brought them all squarely back to this day.

And today, seeing Sherlock get hurt, again, he wondered for the thousandth time if he had made the right choice all those years ago after all.


	9. A danger night to destroy all nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had spent half a lifetime keeping away the one person he loved more than anything in the entire universe.  
> What had it achieved?

“Have a _lovely_ day, Sherlock, and do give the happy couple my best.”

“I will.”

.

.

After the call was disconnected Mycroft sat in his gym looking at the phone.

_What a toll those years of denial and refusal and rejection had taken on them. On them both._

Although he had expected Sherlock’s call today, the feeling in the pit of his stomach was unexpected. He had soothed Sherlock enough to help him cope with the evening but his own mind was a whirl of feelings.

_What was it about other people’s weddings that made one reconsider one’s life choices?_

Emotions. Sentiment.

He had tried to build walls against them his whole life and he had succeeded rather well.

Except when it came to Sherlock. Every time he tried to distance himself he found that Sherlock had been on the same side of the wall as him all along.

Today when he had heard his voice, with its undercurrent of a call for help he had felt a strange mixture of thoughts. There was regret undoubtedly but there was also still desire. There was guilt but stronger still was the longing.

He had spent half a lifetime keeping away the one person he loved more than anything in the entire universe.

What had it achieved?

_Maybe it was time now. Maybe they could still have this._ _Maybe it was not too late._

Emotions are a chemical defect on the losing side.

_But maybe the fear of loss was starting to outweigh the fear of losing._

He himself was now far more powerful than he had been fifteen years ago. Sherlock had certainly shown that he could look after himself during the two years that he was away. Those two years apart had made him deeply aware of how precious every moment was and how fragile and uncertain every new day.

They had both been alone for so long.

Too long really.

He could not have asked for a better person than D.I Lestrade to be at his brother’s side during those dark and tumultuous years. He had hoped later that Dr Watson would have been the solution for Sherlock but it had been a temporary respite.

No matter what promises he made, marriage _was_ the end of an era.

And tonight was surely a danger night to destroy all nights.

.

.

He looked at the suit of armour standing stoically in the corner of his gym room.

_Maybe it was time to ride in for the rescue. To rescue both of them._

He figured he had a couple of hours to get ready and get to the venue.

.

.

Sherlock finished playing the waltz and the physical separation as the couple danced away from him was more than he could bear.

He had let go. He was un- moored.

Again.

_Would he float off again? Would he fall again?_

He wasn’t sure he cared any longer.

_Everyone always left._

Mycroft had left him for his further studies. When Sherlock had made him aware that his feelings were beyond brotherly, Mycroft had left him again.

Left him alone.

 Again.

He had begged and argued and threatened and then begged some more but Mycroft had been un- moved. He remembered every argument like it was just yesterday.

“Sherlock! It cannot be. Please understand. We are not immune to rules and consequences. Look at you. You are brilliant and beautiful and you could have anyone. Please Sherlock. I cannot. We cannot do this. It will destroy both of us because you will eventually regret this.”

“No.’ he thought, wearing his coat and walking out of the wedding hall, suddenly as angry today as he had been then. “NO Mycroft. The only thing I regret is this distance you put between us. You were my refuge from this world. My sanctuary. My other half. My better half. You abandoned me. You left me drifting in an ocean of goldfish. John calls me his best friend. But he isn’t my best friend. That has _always_ been you. My best friend. My… everything. The love of my life. The only one who has  ever really mattered. And you left me. You left me alone……again and again.”

Unbidden, the tears spilled down his cheeks.

He had no idea what he was going to do for the next hour….for the rest of the night…….or the next day……..and every day after that……. stretched out to eternity.

It was a desolate plain of emptiness. The edge of an abyss.

_Maybe he was due for another fall. Maybe this time there would be no landing. Deep into the infinite darkness of the abyss. Maybe there he would find the silence his brain craved._

He was walking down the garden, going away…….. away from the wedding ……away from the noise, the people…… away from the ‘mingling’ as his brother had put it.

He was striding down, tying his scarf, buttoning his coat, looking down at the path, gravel crunching beneath his feet. He came to the parking yard near the gate. Many cars were parked there but only one had someone standing next to it.

He wiped the tears from his eyes to see who it was.

It was dark but there was a full moon and he thought he was imagining things but when the saw the slow smile on the man’s face his heart gave a lurch.

.

.

“Mycroft! You came!” he said almost breathlessly.

“Has it ever happened that you have called me and I have not responded, brother mine?” Mycroft answered, softly.

He noticed the tear tracks on Sherlock’s face and pulled off his leather gloves before reaching out to wipe them.

“I was waiting. I thought you would have been done half an hour ago.”

“Oh there was an attempted murder”. Sherlock said, casually waving his hand. “I solved it.”

“Of course you did.” Mycroft replied, fondly, his hand still caressing his brother’s cheek.

“You helped me Mycie.” Sherlock said. “From my Mind Palace.”

Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat at the childhood name he had not heard spoken out loud in years.

What he said was “I heard the waltz you composed. It was beautiful.” He paused a beat. “You didn’t get a chance to dance though. I know how much you love dancing.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply.

“Shall we?” Mycroft said as he held out his hand to him.

“Here?” Asked Sherlock incredulously.

“No. Come home with me. Then we can dance.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. This was unexpected.

_Was he calling him home out of pity? Was it only for tonight? Was this…..could he dare hope ……?_

“Mycie….are you….is this? Do you ……” Sherlock stammered. “The law? Your work?’

He wasn’t sure what he was asking anymore but of course Mycroft knew what the answer was.

“Yes Sherlock. Nothing has changed. Except me.” He looked away, guilt and shame sweeping his fine features. “I am sorry Sherlock. So sorry. For having made you wait for so long. I meant well but it only seems to have hurt you again and again. There has never been anyone else for me. There never could have been anyone else for me. But I wanted to give you a chance to find someone else. Someone you could be with openly, happily.” He shook his head. “Well….. I guess there is only so much one can fight one’s fate.”

He gave a wry smile and took Sherlock’s hand and held it gently. “Can you forgive me?”

Sherlock was just looking at him, as though unsure that this conversation was really happening.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft was asking, his voice steady, with just the finest tremor…… _was it too late?? Had he made the biggest mistake of his life all those years ago?_ “Do you still feel the same way? You will never be alone again. I promise you that brother mine.”

And then right there, in the car park, just a few metres away from where vows had been exchanged some hours ago, another unbreakable vow was taken.

“Do you still feel the same way? You will never be alone again. I promise you that brother mine.”

.

.

Sherlock let go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. _He could have this_. After all those years of craving and despair, he was going to have this! Under this full moon, on this night, which he had thought was his darkest, at the edge of this abyss, his deepest wish had been fulfilled, his emptiness filled to overflowing in an instant.

He slowly lifted a closed fist and rubbed it on his chest. _Mine. Mine. Mine._

Mycroft gave a half smile and raised his finger and swung it in a wide arc _. Always, forever._

They both leaned in slowly till their lips touched, still unsure if this was real.

But at the touch he felt like his soul that been burning all these years had been soothed and this was heaven and peace and bliss and they were already dancing in the air and the music would never end.

The kiss deepened and Sherlock’s heart was finally safe and quiet, fitting right into the space where he had always belonged.

In his brother’s arms.

When they finally separated Sherlock looked at Mycroft, smiled and said “Take me home.”

And the man who left the wedding early was never ever alone again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogues for chapter 1 have been referenced from the wonderful transcripts by Ariane Devere. https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/44826.html


End file.
